


Coronation

by greendragon_templar



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 1820s, Character Study, Gen, Historical Hetalia, Nationverse, bonding i guess?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2019-06-30 05:07:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15744906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greendragon_templar/pseuds/greendragon_templar
Summary: Ten thousand miles hardly accommodates affection.





	Coronation

**Author's Note:**

> This fic plays directly into a scene I referenced in another story, Castaway, and is meant to serve as a contrast to the deterioration of their relationship later, given things are markedly better here (but still problematic in their own way). Although there's about fifteen years between the two stories I picture Australia as visibly about twelve or thirteen in the mid-1830s, and about eight here.

_January, 1821._

Australia finds England in his study, tucked away in a corner, and the rain almost drowns out the sound of his pen. Scrawling out his thoughts, tension tight in his shoulders, upright and awkward, Australia’s arrival goes unnoticed. England jolts when he spots him.

Bleary-eyed, he observes Australia looking vacantly, but critically toward the wall, at the paintings he has not ceased to despise and deride since the moment they arrived. In his face is the same look he himself wears – _weary_. England spares a glance for the paintings in kind. For the first time, he begins to see what Australia dislikes in them. 

“What’s wrong? Can’t you sleep?”

“Can you?” asks Australia.

England smiles wryly. He’ll get little else out of him. “I suppose not. It’s not really the night for that, is it?” Australia draws nearer; England adjusts the position of his chair to welcome him, pushing his papers to one side. The dog at his feet twitches and sighs. The clay tiles overhead magnify the sound of the rain a thousand-fold, near to _deafening_ – whether they’re imagining it or not. Reduced to a milder rhythm, they can at least hear each other talk.

They’re lucky to be as secure as they are. England, for one, still doesn’t appear completely at ease in Sydney, but it’s better than the convicts’ huts, crowded, situated here and there in keeping with demand for their proximity and labour in local households (and elsewhere). It’s apparent that an effort’s been made to attract England’s good opinion by providing him with this space, with the convict servants and everything else he's demanded, but the settlement boasts of plenty much larger properties, more pleasing to the eye and more appreciative of his station (or so he _professes_ , at any rate).

Australia's fingers wander around the table's grooves and imperfections, hewn from his own trees, his own forests. England sighs at length, picking up and examining a glass sitting beside a bottle of copper liquid. Neither have what they want. Neither knows how to address the other, and England's never made any attempt at compensation. Australia would know England's presence even if he was on the other side of the country - he remains, like a fly in an otherwise empty room. Lost. Burdensome. Just like his self-professed explorers, he clambers uselessly from one side of the country to the other, blaming Australia for his inepitude. At the end of the day he resettles, and considers himself _accomplished_.

“You’re leaving soon.”

“Yes. Our dear regent has his coronation and I’ll be banished, I fear, if I fail to attend." As England tips his body forward Australia sees the vestiges of England's last drink trapped in the curve of the glass. Perhaps it goes toward explaining his more amiable manner. Australia rubs at his scalp. 

“Who’ll stay here?”

“The soldiers. Same as always.”

“I’d rather not," Australia says. "They never know what to say." His remark teases out a laugh from England.

“So who would you have instead?”

“My own,” says Australia. “The other nations. They know me best.”

England’s visibly unsettled, then, but he soon smooths it over, absently scratching behind the ears of the dog by his feet.

“Experience tells me I can’t stop you.” And that is that; a small victory, won by acquiescence. Theirs is a timid relationship, managed at arm’s length, a contract over which Australia snatches the upper hand whenever he can manage it. Perhaps, his superficial youth's beguiling,  _even_ to England, but ten thousand miles hardly accommodates affection.

“Can I do anything?” England insists.

“What for?”

“To help you.”

“I don’t need it.”

“You’re a child,” England stresses, and the lines in his face become a little less formidable. “You don’t need to pretend.”

_I'm nothing of the sort. You know nothing._

At the other end of the theoretical string which links them, Australia prepares to sever the thread, eyeing the door, but England entices him back.

“Didn’t you come out for a reason? I am not your nurse; I won’t send you back to bed. Come here.” 

Australia does, after fleeting hesitation, pushing through the darkness, to where England’s eyes – and, oddly, a wide cut on his left hand, almost scabbed over, _astonishingly_ pale – glisten. Nonetheless, Australia maintains his customary distance.

“When will I see you again?” Australia ventures, doing his best to drain it of any hints of fondness. But if he wants to sound cold, or removed, or apathetic to whether England stays or goes, he hasn’t totally perfected the art.

“Perhaps five years, give or take,” England replies.

England’s time and presence have not been generous, as it is, and Australia dares to suppose that he’ll happily go without. There are others to rely on, the indigenous nations that England hasn't touched, and Australia’s beginning to think that even _Canada_ would sooner come running, if he could manage it. Theirs is brotherhood, and not servitude.  _Canada_ would sooner take his face in his hands, proffering compliments and good will and recognition – _you have done well_. He cannot rely on a nation who gives visits like gifts.

“I’ll be stopping over in India, so I’m sending my letters ahead,” England explains. “This one’s related to some bloody awful land dispute – some property I’ve been holding, and the beneficiary—” The words trail off, once again, and he gazes at the letter in front of him, an interrogation of his own work. It’s as though he’s searching for an answer to his statement, some way to finish it off. “No, never mind. You don’t need to hear. But I’m sending this to the southwest.”

“Your home?”

“Yes,” England says, and he gets up and goes to the cupboard behind him, producing a dented, but beautiful globe - a casualty of the journey, apparently. Australia regards it closely as it’s brought to the desk. It’s _inconceivable_  to think he might have any kind of kinship with the etched landmass that bears his name. He longs, as he often does, that it had taken them as long to find _him_ as it did to trace the coastlines of the continent. England may endeavour to be understanding, but the people he’s brought with him never have.

Seated once more, England’s finger begins at the east coast of Australia – _New Holland_ , reads the old, outdated thing, still assuming that Van Diemen's Land and the mainland are tied - trailing upwards to near its crown. It’s not the first time Australia’s been struck by the sheer difference in size. England’s home could fit into what has been designated to _him_ a dozen times over, but _he’s_ the one with the child’s face. Not for the first time, he's suitably baffled.

It would do nothing more than add fuel to the fire, if only England was not making such an effort, in the moment. It wouldn’t be so hard to hate him if only he wasn’t granting Australia his periodic, lingering glances, invitations to know more of his world and to partake in it, to learn the nation’s trade. England, the individual, is _gracious_ , and it’s tearing him asunder. There's so few occasions when he's bearable, as it is.

“Here,” England says, gesturing to a tiny corner of his own home. “Right here.”

“It looks so small.” 

“To you, perhaps,” comes the reply, hushed and fond. “You aren’t the only country who’s had to learn of their own immensity. And the earth is so vast.” He swipes a palm across the globe’s surface, turning it to bring Russia to the centre. “Imagine how it felt for _him_. And the winters…”

“How cold?”

“A living hell,” says England, snidely. “But haven’t I shown you this before?”

“No,” is the simple answer, and Australia taps his finger against where _New Zealand_ is written. "Never."

In the absence of Australia’s own commentary, England keeps talking, but the combination of the rain and his softened tone – although they are the only two in the house, save the servants – leaves Australia with almost no information above and beyond that with which he started. Yet England’s voice is fine if it isn’t raised - if it aims to lure, and not to chastise.

He’s talking cordially about greenery, about the sea, about cliffs and gardens, and Australia fits everything he says into his own understanding, appreciating his intention. He knows more than enough about his own coastlines, certainly - tumultuous seas to the west, and sheer rockfaces to the east (but a cultivated garden sounds _suffocating_ , as do manicured hedges, and flowers that would undoubtedly look entirely at odds with the rest of the landscape), and the new information is not unwelcome.

England eventually interrupts himself to let the dog out of the room. If he concentrates, Australia thinks he can smell the rain on the hot dirt outside, more intimate and regular than anything the globe aims to portray. He's so rarely at ease these days; he can't ever be truly comfortable with the state of affairs.

“You look exhausted.” Australia conveys his disagreement with a firm shake of the head, but it does nothing to lift the weight from his eyes. “I don’t want to keep you up. Why don’t you head back to bed?”

Another purposeful shake of the head, and then: “You’re already putting me to sleep.”

“I apologise,” England quips, retaking his chair. “If geography bores you then I’ll see myself out.”

“I don’t mind.”

“You told me that you did.”

Australia sighs, and grinning, England returns his gaze to the continents before him. His expression soon morphs into something a bit more mournful, more sentimental, as though the globe itself might serve as a conduit to a happier past. It's truly possible that they would, indeed, be better off without one another - the only thing standing in the way of that conclusion is that Australia still finds himself extracting some minute measure of satisfaction and contentment from the affirmations that England so intermittently affords.

“There’s so much you haven’t seen yet,” he says. “There’s only so much for you here.”

“That isn’t true,” Australia answers immediately, snapping himself out of his own serene, tepid stupor.

England changes his position somewhat, leaning back, preparing a response, but at that second, there’s a vicious clap of thunder from outside – resounding, _powerful_ – and their momentary peace is vanished.

England _jumps_ ; the candle wavers dangerously; the dog barks from outside the door.

And Australia laughs, before he can second-guess himself. It takes a moment, but England joins him, in his self-deprecatory way – simultaneously scrambling to regain his composure, changing the position of his arms, jotting the date at the top of his paper with a shaking hand. Australia’s reminded of a startled cat, meek.

“It gets worse than this,” he says, with a noticeable air of pride, and England looks at him sidelong.

“I won’t stay to see, if you don’t mind. This is more than enough for me. I've been attempting to adapt—”

“Doesn’t look like it made a difference,” Australia challenges.

“That’s cruel of you,” England shoots back, but he’s smiling. “I _am_ trying.”

England is the one to break the ensuing quiet, and it throws Australia more than anything else the night has had to offer.

“You don’t have to stay here this time.” It looks – and sounds – like an appeal, like an unfounded hope. “Nobody can keep you here, no matter how old you look.”

“What?”

“You don’t have to stay here – in New South Wales. You ought to join me on the journey back. The king would be glad to meet you.” And so his tone alters itself, from request to expectation, and it leeches any and all affability from the space between them.

“To England?"

There’s an abrupt, unexplainable pain to his gut at the mention of such distant shores.

“Yes. Scarcely anyone has been granted the opportunity to meet you. People are learning of you now, do you know?”

What time that Australia's spent at sea, brief symbolic journeys and formal meetings, have been arduous. He’ll never wash from his mind the rawer memories: the seasickness, his resistance to the trials and routine of the journeys, his own equilibrium deteriorated by the ship’s rations.

He _can’t_ do it again – not when the combined result is complete _isolation_ from his own affairs. It would almost seem _intentional_.

He’ll avoid the place for the rest of his life, if he can help it.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t.”

“You’d enjoy it there; I know you would. Staying here can only—”

“I can’t,” Australia reiterates, and his tone settles the score.

England withdraws, deflated. “That’s the best I can offer,” he says. His voice is harder than it was before, disgruntled, but Australia cannot be so ready to cast aside what has gone before – the errors already made. No matter his age, he can’t permit himself flights of fancy to places he barely knows or desires. In the circumstances, in his country’s state, such an action could only be condemned.

“I can’t leave,” Australia repeats, voice loud and clear despite the storm, without making eye contact. “They need me here.”

England’s probably uttered something similar, more than once, in some other event; he can’t deny it, no matter how much he desires to.

“In this stage of life, your role has its limits. _Many_ limits, in fact. I can appoint others in your stead.”

“I couldn’t trust them.”

“And what can you do that they can’t?” England pushes. “Why can’t you go?”

“I’ve been here since the start,” Australia says back, with finality. “That’s _all_ it is.”

England winces. There’s no use wasting energy, they mutually, soundlessly concede, on a conflict that’s not only doomed from the outset, but partially inaudible amidst the thunder. Neither could possibly get anything out of it.

“I understand.”

Australia hears as England pours himself a glass of rum and downs it. After it’s gone he rises, quietly shutting the door. Deprived of potential distraction and escape, Australia turns in time to receive a tentative touch against his shoulder - an ink-stained hand. England kneels.

“I hate disappointing you,” he says. “I am doing everything in my power.” Australia’s unprepared to believe him, but he listens.

“I need to stay here. I want them to trust me.”

“They will. Give them time.” The ornamentation on England’s coat glints in the dark.

“Why are you so sure?”

“Because all of the others manage. You're no different from them. I know you're doing what you believe is in your best interests, and that of your people. I won't take that away."

Australia familiarises himself with the sight of the rug, with the horrid paintings, with the sounds of the downpour from outside.

“You’re talking like a nation,” England says to him, then, and Australia meets his eyes. “I’m proud of you.”

No matter how heartfelt his declaration purports to be, it’s pursued by silence – not out of indifference, necessarily, but out of uncertainty, _disorder_. Australia doesn’t dare utter anything further. He’s done his bit, and made his case; England must now bear the onus of understanding it.

And so he tries in vain to quell the small swell of pride that he receives, to _stifle_ it. He didn’t ask for the praise (and if it stays with him, or somehow _inexplicably_ strengthens his resolve, he won’t be the one to say it; England doesn't deserve the credit, irrespective of his stabs at kindness).

A final touch to his temple, and England gets up and goes. The cacophony of the rain consumes his footsteps.

Australia walks to the small window embedded in the far wall, to the right of England’s desk. He can’t see a thing; he expected nothing more. The outside world’s engulfed by the January storm, and the air’s thick and humid, punctuated by the usual cool gusts. But if he resists the urge to breathe on the glass, he can still catch a hazy glimpse of his own reflection.

Over thirty years, in _England’s_ terms, and his eyes are as round as ever (such a span of time is still within the realm of humanity; he doesn’t seem that abnormal to irregular visitors to the colony).

He minds it; he’ll continue to mind it. There's no escaping the discomfort, the omnipresent tenant in the back of his mind, a persistent reminder of the contradiction between what he knows and how he appears. And after everything that he's seen, his forceful exposure to the sad state of the world—

He doesn't need England to tell him he's a nation.

 


End file.
